Jessamy Beech Ch. 10: Plymouth

With no food, no clean drinking water, no weapons and no medical supplies it seemed that all their efforts would soon be in vain. Jessamy coughed up bubbles of frothy blood as they rested in the back of a looted Argos lorry, abandoned like so many thousands of other vehicles on the motorway heading out of the doomed city. They were just outside the ruins of the small coastal town of Dunbar.

Myrtle stood guard, gazing out at the grey drizzle and shivering with cold despite her thick coat. The dog looked thoroughly miserable, her fur matted and filthy, with cuts on her paws from the sharp volcanic rock.

"Bet you wish you'd never met us eh?" Jessamy croaked.

Myrtle shot her a reproachful look. The dog had known them for just days but seemed as loyal and comfortable with her and Hamnavoe as if she'd been with them for years.

"H-how you holding up?" Jessamy asked Hamnavoe, only half expecting a response. Her throat was parched and her voice sounded pathetically feeble to her ears.

Hamnavoe had been drifting in and out of consciousness as the infection from his arm spread. His fever had worsened and the limb swollen, the fingers now like bloated sausages. But without some basic medical supplies there was nothing Jessamy could do. It would only be a matter of time.

"I ... f-fuckin' love you JB," he mumbled, his eyes darting to and fro but not focussing on any one thing.

Jessamy smiled to herself. Where had that come from? Was that just the delirious shit that dying men spouted or was there some part of Hamnavoe's addled brain that actually believed it? She liked to think it was the latter.

"W-well I ... kind of love you too," she whispered, feeling hot tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Whether or not Hamnavoe understood or even heard seemed irrelevant.

It was true. She'd grown very fond of Hamnavoe. But now neither of them would ever know if it could possibly grow into something more. They were, as far as she knew, the only ones who knew Trevithick's true identity. And without Trevithick to open the bunker in Gloucester Cathedral, the world was living on borrowed time anyway.

Thanatos would eventually hit the Earth and wipe out every last living thing.

If Trevithick had come this way he was probably already dead too ...

Jessamy roused herself and swung her legs wearily out of the back of the truck, "Let's see if we can do a c-couple more miles before d-dark eh?"

She remembered from the old AA road atlas that ahead lay St Abbs and the tiny fishing village of Eyemouth. And beyond that - England. Not that things like borders mattered anymore. Perhaps they might find shelter, or a good samaritan willing to help them. If there was such a thing anymore. Myrtle wagged her tail and leapt down onto the tarmac, whimpering as she landed on her lacerated pads.

Jessamy stared down at her, "I wish to fuck dogs had hands sometimes. Then you could carry Hamnavoe's scrawny ass for a while."

. . .

Through Jessamy's determination and stubbornness, they managed another three miles before she had to admit defeat. She lowered Hamnavoe to the road surface as gently as she could then half sat and half fell down herself, gasping for breath as she leaned back against a rusting Peugeot. Myrtle whined and stamped her paws, looking eastward and eager to be off.

"J-just need ... a few ... m-minutes ... sleep Myrtle," Jessamy's stolen militia uniform was stiff with dried blood. Not all of it her own. She had no idea how much she'd lost herself, "just ... need ... s-sleep ..."

. . .

Jessamy dreamt.

She giggled as the Beech family's two springer spaniels tore off across the broad, sandy beach. She found it extraordinary how any creature could get so excited about the prospect of chasing a soggy tennis ball. The strengthening wind whipped spray from the white, foaming tops of the breakers and Jessamy tasted salt as she licked her lips. Cornwall in winter. Her idea of paradise.

"Jess! Don't go too far!" shouted a voice behind her, almost snatched away by the wind. Her mother.

Jessamy turned, to see how far back her parents and brother were ...

Something snorted warm breath near her face, waking her with a jolt.

It was dawn. The storm had finally passed and a few wispy pink clouds glowed in the orange sky high above. Jessamy flinched and shielded her eyes as something metallic jingled above her. A leather saddle creaked.

Five horses with riders wrapped up in layers against the bitter cold encircled them, their breaths pluming white in the frosty air. At least three were armed, with a mixture of automatic weapons and longbows. Myrtle eyed them warily but made no sound.

Horses! Jessamy hadn't seen a real live horse in years. She'd thought they were extinct, all killed for food decades earlier.

"Who are you?" demanded one of the riders, a young man who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty, Jessamy guessed. The rising sun glinted in his shock of red hair.

"If you're going to rob us, then rob us ... but we don't have anything," Jessamy began, defiantly, "if you're g-going to kill us then quit jawin' and get it over with. I d-don't give a shit anymore. Just spare the dog."

"John," interrupted one of the others, an old woman, "can't you see they're in no fit state to cause us any bother?"

She dismounted gingerly, favouring her right hip and approached slowly, so as not to provoke Myrtle, "There there. I'm not going to hurt your mistress, doggy. I just want to see how she is."

Jessamy glanced at Hamnavoe. Without closer inspection she couldn't tell if he was dead or merely unconscious.

"I'll get your medical kit," said another of the riders, a freckle faced teenage girl with masses of tumbling red locks tied back in a rough ponytail. She leapt down before the young man, John, could protest. Jessamy peered at the old woman as she drew nearer. She looked oddly familiar ...

At least twenty years older than when they'd last met in the village of Threlkeld - mid seventies or even eightyish by now - but apart from a few more wrinkles she'd hardly changed, "Mrs ... Taber?"

Mrs Taber paused, a frown creasing her soft, kindly face, "How do you know my name love? Have we met before?"

She stared intently at Jessamy, trying to see past the dried blood, tattoos, twenty years worth of marks and scars, and the dreadlocks ...

"Jess?"

Jessamy smiled cautiously and nodded.

"Jessamy ... Beech? Is that really you?"

The red haired young man, John, called down to them, "Who is it Mrs Taber?"

The girl knelt beside Jessamy and the old woman, opening an enormous leather satchel that was evidently their medical kit.

"John, Tamsin ... I'd like you both to meet your Aunt Jessamy."

Jessamy couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. Mrs Taber should be dead on the other side of the country. The Reivers had invaded Cumbria twenty years ago while she'd been in Southport and massacred everyone. How could she be here? And who were these other people? And why did the two redheads look so damn familiar too?

Mrs Taber selected some heavy duty scissors and began cutting at Jessamy's jacket, "John, why don't you ride back to Berwick and tell your mum and dad they're going to have visitors. Get someone to meet us with a transport and free up two beds at the hospital."

Berwick, thought Jessamy. Did she mean Berwick Upon Tweed?

John nodded wordlessly down to her, gestured to one of their armed escort, and the two turned their mounts to gallop back the way they had obviously come. Whoever they were it seemed that they held Mrs Taber in great respect.

Jessamy seized the young girl's wrist as she tried to offer a drink from a battered metal canteen. She was sick of not knowing what the fuck was going on, "Wait. J-just who are you? What's in Berwick? Who's your mum and dad?"

The girl smiled, "I'm Tamsin Beech. My parents are King Ross ..."

Ross? Her brother Ross? Jessamy's heart pounded in her chest ...

"... and Queen Merida."

Jessamy passed out.

COMING SOON - CHAPTER ELEVEN: PENZANCE